BEYOND BORING part 1
by Angela Nunscunt on Tuesday, 12 April 2011 at 18:25
i gave up drinking alcohol five days ago. i never had a problem with drinking, i'm from glasgow. it's in the blood.
i just got incredibly bored of getting wasted and telling the same story over and over and over again. starring me of course.
i've been living in amsterdam since 2002 and i still havent bothered my fucking arse to learn the local language. i have no great meaningful excuse for this. i just wanted to live somewhere i couldnt understand what people where saying in general. i wanted detachment from the everyday thinking of people. and i got it. so thanks amsterdam!
there were plenty of other distractions along the way, coffeeshops, if you find a good one to actually sit in and talk to people you should be awarded a golden porsche and an acre of hashable land. there is only one coffeshop in amsterdam worth a fuck and i'm not going to tell anyone where that is or it'll get fucked by idiots and never be the same.
all other coffeeshops are HELL on earth.
Christ I'm bored already just writing this. Sobriety is odd. So is sitting in the library amoung all these strange assorted minds. how much are they affecting my choice of words? surely there has to be some kind of external influence, there must be at least 800 minds in this building all bunched together, maybe more.
the guy on the piano is annoying today.
i write and i read over the bits i've written, delete them and fuck up the flow, this not writing, this is not a good story worth reading, this is not my life, this is a continual fight against all these other minds. all these other languages firing back and forth to and from a greater source of consciousness. this library is fucked. i chose the worst possible place to write my diary. i am not alone. i'm being worked on by black ops. i am being tampered with. footered aboot!
cunts.
i'm meditating now. i've changed my breathing. big deep breaths in and out. i picture a green flow of energy coming from the middle of the top of my rib cage. i feel it touch everyone around me. feelings of joy. comfort and love. hmmm...the beardy guy next to me still feels like he's a black ops terrorist of some kind, i think he;s reading what i'm writing. "hey! fuck you man! get on with your own life!"
o.k. i'm back now. ha ha ha! he moved in his chair, i think he really was reading this. ah fuck.
i'm scared now.
so where was I?
O.k. so I need a job. I have rent to pay. Some how I managed to get awaý without paying rent for three and a half years. Call it luck. but it tied me down to a life of not giving a fuck. In that time I made music. lots of it. I learned how to cut film on my computer. I was a hermit. Now I am out in the sun. It's burning my eyes and I have to adjust to the world that I thought I knew but obviously don't.
The other week I won a big ad industry award for the best poster campaign of the decade (90's). Surely I can use this to get something other than a fucking bar job or washing dishes. Does being out of the picture for 5 years make you a fucking hasbeen?
people still wipe their ass with toilet paper. there are maybe more vegetarians in the world.
Global consciousness has grown with the internet. Even if most of it is useless information and hollywood propaganda designed to dumb down society. keeping our eyes away from the truth: who and what we are.
keep brushing with fluoride!
stay tuned for more of what you are missing!
look! actors do as they are fucking told! again! and again! and again!
read this interview with an actor who.....does as she's fucking told!
listen! to this shit fucking music.
dance! to this shit fucking music.
talking of which.....there is a really terrible female voice singing with a guitar in the live radio section or whatever it is they have up there on the 5th floor of this library? terrible shit, only a fire alarm, direct violence or a well thought out plan could stop this aural nightmare. or a swift exit. which i feel is on the cards.
and i'm hungry.
tune in tomorrow for some more pointlessness or maybe day 6 of sobriety will be an upper? with less added cynical behaviour.
i fucking hope so.
BEYOND BORING Part 2 (unleashed by the missing memory chip)
by Angela Nunscunt on Saturday, 16 April 2011 at 03:50
It was unexpected after all this sunshine. A fucking freezing journey back home this evening. I arrived at my rented house share with the sugarfactory’s own very special bar star. She was still chilling from her big birthday Barbie on Sunday. Deserved, it was a special bonding for a good bunch of people old and new. And some fucked up inspiration on the sober bus.
Thankfully the problem (if it was to be one) was shared by dick priest. He’s old! as it said on his birthday cake a few months back. He’s got no choice. He’s got a mission possible. We took the advice of Bruce Lee and ‘were like water’. Each cup , each bottle, each glass entered into our bodies in a variety of shapes and sizes, making the form of our insides change shape. React and change energy , positive energy within our organs. Pushing light and dark and colour, expanding new passageways for more energy and light. Healing, growth, making the body happy, changing the mind, making it good again. Like a child grown by animals and forrest, honest, innocent , deadly.
Only the joint’s of grass that followed broke the attention span, made it harder to listen other peoples stories. I was back at square high.
One full cycle of my bedroom on it’s wobbly axis around itself and a tiny part of the sun. One full day of dope recovery and no alcohol was still surprising. But it’s gone now. It’s passed. Learned. Worked. An idea. This idea. Beyond comment. Beyond online therapy. Beyond boring. Beyonce even. Be S you fucking R. (THAT’LL BE 500EURO FOR THE PLUG THANKS).
o.k. more about me. I’m tall, skinny, bald, have a weird form of post traumatic stress disorder from the separation of my natural mother since birth. But then these are just words. Freuds childrens words. Inside it feels more like there is never any one true path. Only a collection of bumps and cracks in the road that make you career in multiple directions. A life in tangent to everything possible. Sometimes you let it happen sometimes you cycle faster with one single point in your sights, as you slow down knowing you are close to your destination you hit a bump and let it go to wherever it takes you co’s you don’t want it to be the same as when you last arrived.
To adapt in life I have opened the tool box a little too deep in the dreamy section. This began when I got a G4 mac powerbook. Music software Vs film editing software Vs word. That’s a lie. It began long ago but that will come back in bits, in time. Not now.
What do you do when you read the first page, first couple of pages or chapter of a book and think, “fuck it!” Binned. Like target practice,deadly arrow dart ninja throw to the nearest street bin as youre walking to work whatever. Fucking binned. DO NOT PASS ON. No one deserves that time wasting period of hell. I had that with Nick Hornby once. (raises one finger) Once! I wonder if you can sue a writer for wasting part of your life? time is money. Everything has a price now. Cheer up! How much is that worth? So my point is….If the story is not boring enough. Kill it. Go click somewhere else. Go click yourself. Click some dirtier dirt, but don’t click mine. Click.
Sometimes I wish I was in a relationship with a talented woman. She could edit my words instead of editing my friends. she could do this while I visit my friends.
My diet’s got weird being this broke. The term starving artist as I was saying at the Barbie on Sunday, just a quick discourse, not a full on monologue (as I’ve been warned I do too much, pre sobriety) has no proper meaning unless youre starving, not sure what the next day’s porcelain plate will hold, counting the 5 euro cents into piles or even just listening to your stomach eat itself. Ouch! I just got a physical memory performance just there. Not again. But you sometimes just never know. If you seek the truth, if you want to be completely free, you need to experience the awakening of all the senses. Sometimes again. Or in a different order. The balance is only defined by what you gave the world on those particular days, hours, seconds, colours,energy, light.
Ya dig?
Click. Don’t click.
I remember nothing. I only register energy as a physical feeling rushing through my body. This lasts a period of timelessness during a two hour meditation. The real world as it’s commonly known took some time to dissipate. To fuck off and leave me in peace. Now I am breathing with the earth. The earth as it was before it was harmed by man. I connect with a ball of light 3 feet away from the base of my feet. Light pours through the top of my head from the divine cosmos as some call it, through my crown, filling and activating my known chakra points, bursting them with pure blinding light and energy . reaching this ball beneath me and directing itself into the earths core. After much spinning and wild transformations inside of my body I connect to everything living thing on earth. This helps heal the earth of which I am part of. I don’t do this directly for myself, to be honest I don’t really know what the fuck I am doing but as I wrote on a poster the other day,
IF YOU DON’T KNOW
WHAT YOURE DOING
YOU KNOW
WHAT YOURE DOING.
Apply to anything. It’s a feeling. Not an action. Subconsciousness taking over. Instinct. Will.
Love.
Hippy fucking LOVE. Any fucking love.
Doubt is the killer
Kill. Don’t kill.
Thankfully the problem (if it was to be one) was shared by dick priest. He’s old! as it said on his birthday cake a few months back. He’s got no choice. He’s got a mission possible. We took the advice of Bruce Lee and ‘were like water’. Each cup , each bottle, each glass entered into our bodies in a variety of shapes and sizes, making the form of our insides change shape. React and change energy , positive energy within our organs. Pushing light and dark and colour, expanding new passageways for more energy and light. Healing, growth, making the body happy, changing the mind, making it good again. Like a child grown by animals and forrest, honest, innocent , deadly.
Only the joint’s of grass that followed broke the attention span, made it harder to listen other peoples stories. I was back at square high.
One full cycle of my bedroom on it’s wobbly axis around itself and a tiny part of the sun. One full day of dope recovery and no alcohol was still surprising. But it’s gone now. It’s passed. Learned. Worked. An idea. This idea. Beyond comment. Beyond online therapy. Beyond boring. Beyonce even. Be S you fucking R. (THAT’LL BE 500EURO FOR THE PLUG THANKS).
o.k. more about me. I’m tall, skinny, bald, have a weird form of post traumatic stress disorder from the separation of my natural mother since birth. But then these are just words. Freuds childrens words. Inside it feels more like there is never any one true path. Only a collection of bumps and cracks in the road that make you career in multiple directions. A life in tangent to everything possible. Sometimes you let it happen sometimes you cycle faster with one single point in your sights, as you slow down knowing you are close to your destination you hit a bump and let it go to wherever it takes you co’s you don’t want it to be the same as when you last arrived.
To adapt in life I have opened the tool box a little too deep in the dreamy section. This began when I got a G4 mac powerbook. Music software Vs film editing software Vs word. That’s a lie. It began long ago but that will come back in bits, in time. Not now.
What do you do when you read the first page, first couple of pages or chapter of a book and think, “fuck it!” Binned. Like target practice,deadly arrow dart ninja throw to the nearest street bin as youre walking to work whatever. Fucking binned. DO NOT PASS ON. No one deserves that time wasting period of hell. I had that with Nick Hornby once. (raises one finger) Once! I wonder if you can sue a writer for wasting part of your life? time is money. Everything has a price now. Cheer up! How much is that worth? So my point is….If the story is not boring enough. Kill it. Go click somewhere else. Go click yourself. Click some dirtier dirt, but don’t click mine. Click.
Sometimes I wish I was in a relationship with a talented woman. She could edit my words instead of editing my friends. she could do this while I visit my friends.
My diet’s got weird being this broke. The term starving artist as I was saying at the Barbie on Sunday, just a quick discourse, not a full on monologue (as I’ve been warned I do too much, pre sobriety) has no proper meaning unless youre starving, not sure what the next day’s porcelain plate will hold, counting the 5 euro cents into piles or even just listening to your stomach eat itself. Ouch! I just got a physical memory performance just there. Not again. But you sometimes just never know. If you seek the truth, if you want to be completely free, you need to experience the awakening of all the senses. Sometimes again. Or in a different order. The balance is only defined by what you gave the world on those particular days, hours, seconds, colours,energy, light.
Ya dig?
Click. Don’t click.
I remember nothing. I only register energy as a physical feeling rushing through my body. This lasts a period of timelessness during a two hour meditation. The real world as it’s commonly known took some time to dissipate. To fuck off and leave me in peace. Now I am breathing with the earth. The earth as it was before it was harmed by man. I connect with a ball of light 3 feet away from the base of my feet. Light pours through the top of my head from the divine cosmos as some call it, through my crown, filling and activating my known chakra points, bursting them with pure blinding light and energy . reaching this ball beneath me and directing itself into the earths core. After much spinning and wild transformations inside of my body I connect to everything living thing on earth. This helps heal the earth of which I am part of. I don’t do this directly for myself, to be honest I don’t really know what the fuck I am doing but as I wrote on a poster the other day,
IF YOU DON’T KNOW
WHAT YOURE DOING
YOU KNOW
WHAT YOURE DOING.
Apply to anything. It’s a feeling. Not an action. Subconsciousness taking over. Instinct. Will.
Love.
Hippy fucking LOVE. Any fucking love.
Doubt is the killer
Kill. Don’t kill.
BEYOND BORING Part 3
by Angela Nunscunt on Wednesday, 13 April 2011 at 22:02
(Part 2 was written last night and lives inside another computer. It will be set free in a few days. So here is part 3.)
I wake up earlier than most but I never get up for ages. I enjoy the duvet. I don't just sleep through it. A duvet has to be loved. It loves you back. My duvet loves me so much it never lets me leave. I fight with it. I call it names, but it knows i love it. I get away with it always. I've had girlfriends who got jealous of my duvet.
Lentil soup and a homemade chocolate bon bon for breakfast.
My roomate was watching a chickflick. I could hear jennifer anniston in the background screaming,"Oh my God!" or something equally dramatic. I eat my soup and checked my mails but the browser kept crashing on my old G4, it's fucked. I live with the hope that the tiny chips inside will start their own revolution and i can once again type comments on facebook without a crash. Hmmm...me not leaving comments. This could be divine work at hand?
put on my blue agnes b jacket (a bit washed out looking) and breton top (a bit last summer) and black jeans. no need to fiddle about with the hair these days and headed out to meet band member for a meeting.
this is not going to sound very nice but it was the big event of the day; since the bar b q on sunday, i hadnt been to the lavatory. now as i'm vegie pretty much all the time these days, the meat (one chicken leg and a small burger) must have ganged together (being the aggressive element) and held hostage all of the other vegetables in there. Like for 3 to 4 days!
i tried everything, coffee and fags, brown rice, figs. Every unsuccessful trip to the toilet I could hear Elvis laughing.
Was this the giving up booze thing? Were hops and barely my only source of ruffage (is that how you spell that?) who cares?
Well, I won't go into too much more detail but after a bowl of band member rice and some greens my stomach obviously had enough of the seige and so nature took it's course. Elvis was singing a strange cover of "please delete me let me go". This put me in two minds about carrying on with this boring diary. as i kind of fucked things up last night by smoking a joint. but then that's not alcohol but then it sort of is in the mind. i dunno. fuck it. anyway. that's all in part 2 which is quite a revelation compared to the anger and frustration of part 1. but lets not over analyze this boredom too much, it's not allowed to get too boring.
so. i walked to the albert heijn with my china, the dog choosing to shit in a built up area of housing instead of the park we just walked it through. i made polite conversation with the homeless guy who has made more money than i have in four years easy. his teeth don't look as good as mine though or his clothes. that's only a question of time and more bad luck.
i cycled home wondering just what had i achieved on this sunny jobless day. i have a friend who is free during the day sometimes that i can visit or make music with. i have a large bowel capacity. i now weigh less than i did on sunday. i still earn less than the homeless guy outside the alberheijn but i am facing up to this, i have now made it an issue, a benchmark.
I arrived home. Jennifer Anniston had leaped into another movie and was act crying and telling some guy he was a 'jerk!"
Is this some kind of slang for "wank!" That's a big claim really. I think people have forgotten the true meaning of words. Some words just become so overused they flop out like an old dick, "dick!" or "motherfucker!" / "mofo!" I used that one the other day as a term of endearment to a russian friend. Hey you , you fuck your mother! do you want to make some music today and then come to this art exhibition?
well, they do in russia don't they? fuck their family. i've seen it on the internet. it's sick but it can be a turn on depending on the styling and right casting. it has to be believable or it's just model crap.
incest and fake incest aside.
my roomate asked me how my day was. i said, "crap fucking jobhunting" or something like that. which was an outright lie. I'm lying already and I just moved in a month ago. So I got what I deserved, instant karma. She said, "well there's always round the corner, theyre always looking for people."
I said, "where round the corner?", as she was pointing to a part of the street I have yet to venture.
"Over there! MacDonalds! Over there!"
She had a straight face. She wasnt joking.
I went to the kitchen and made flatbread with the last of my olive tomato stuff. I decided I would award myself a special prize for being the most positive man in town.
(apologies for the bad spelling here and there i'm in a rush to get across town and i live in another country and don't get hold of as much english books as i'd like to)
I wake up earlier than most but I never get up for ages. I enjoy the duvet. I don't just sleep through it. A duvet has to be loved. It loves you back. My duvet loves me so much it never lets me leave. I fight with it. I call it names, but it knows i love it. I get away with it always. I've had girlfriends who got jealous of my duvet.
Lentil soup and a homemade chocolate bon bon for breakfast.
My roomate was watching a chickflick. I could hear jennifer anniston in the background screaming,"Oh my God!" or something equally dramatic. I eat my soup and checked my mails but the browser kept crashing on my old G4, it's fucked. I live with the hope that the tiny chips inside will start their own revolution and i can once again type comments on facebook without a crash. Hmmm...me not leaving comments. This could be divine work at hand?
put on my blue agnes b jacket (a bit washed out looking) and breton top (a bit last summer) and black jeans. no need to fiddle about with the hair these days and headed out to meet band member for a meeting.
this is not going to sound very nice but it was the big event of the day; since the bar b q on sunday, i hadnt been to the lavatory. now as i'm vegie pretty much all the time these days, the meat (one chicken leg and a small burger) must have ganged together (being the aggressive element) and held hostage all of the other vegetables in there. Like for 3 to 4 days!
i tried everything, coffee and fags, brown rice, figs. Every unsuccessful trip to the toilet I could hear Elvis laughing.
Was this the giving up booze thing? Were hops and barely my only source of ruffage (is that how you spell that?) who cares?
Well, I won't go into too much more detail but after a bowl of band member rice and some greens my stomach obviously had enough of the seige and so nature took it's course. Elvis was singing a strange cover of "please delete me let me go". This put me in two minds about carrying on with this boring diary. as i kind of fucked things up last night by smoking a joint. but then that's not alcohol but then it sort of is in the mind. i dunno. fuck it. anyway. that's all in part 2 which is quite a revelation compared to the anger and frustration of part 1. but lets not over analyze this boredom too much, it's not allowed to get too boring.
so. i walked to the albert heijn with my china, the dog choosing to shit in a built up area of housing instead of the park we just walked it through. i made polite conversation with the homeless guy who has made more money than i have in four years easy. his teeth don't look as good as mine though or his clothes. that's only a question of time and more bad luck.
i cycled home wondering just what had i achieved on this sunny jobless day. i have a friend who is free during the day sometimes that i can visit or make music with. i have a large bowel capacity. i now weigh less than i did on sunday. i still earn less than the homeless guy outside the alberheijn but i am facing up to this, i have now made it an issue, a benchmark.
I arrived home. Jennifer Anniston had leaped into another movie and was act crying and telling some guy he was a 'jerk!"
Is this some kind of slang for "wank!" That's a big claim really. I think people have forgotten the true meaning of words. Some words just become so overused they flop out like an old dick, "dick!" or "motherfucker!" / "mofo!" I used that one the other day as a term of endearment to a russian friend. Hey you , you fuck your mother! do you want to make some music today and then come to this art exhibition?
well, they do in russia don't they? fuck their family. i've seen it on the internet. it's sick but it can be a turn on depending on the styling and right casting. it has to be believable or it's just model crap.
incest and fake incest aside.
my roomate asked me how my day was. i said, "crap fucking jobhunting" or something like that. which was an outright lie. I'm lying already and I just moved in a month ago. So I got what I deserved, instant karma. She said, "well there's always round the corner, theyre always looking for people."
I said, "where round the corner?", as she was pointing to a part of the street I have yet to venture.
"Over there! MacDonalds! Over there!"
She had a straight face. She wasnt joking.
I went to the kitchen and made flatbread with the last of my olive tomato stuff. I decided I would award myself a special prize for being the most positive man in town.
(apologies for the bad spelling here and there i'm in a rush to get across town and i live in another country and don't get hold of as much english books as i'd like to)
BEYOND BORING Part 4
by Angela Nunscunt on Friday, 15 April 2011 at 00:04
last night i was offered a job. lifting lamenated floors from a high rise apartment in osdorp, just a wee cycle out of the centrum overlooking the big lake. my pay is all the wooden floors, so it's up on markplaats for sale now. 200 euros O.N.O. (if anyone is looking for it). good quality. call 0625 15 14 18.
i made some homemade bread and humous for breakfast which i eat while cycling with my old scottish china from edinburgh to the apartment.
the views from the balcony were amazing, i got a great idea for a band photoshoot. we'll have to do it guerilla style , some illegal roof climbing with no health and safety will be required, old skool. my favourite.
after a good mornings work we set out to see what was going on in the local shopping complex. i walked out of hema with a bottle of apple juice and boysen berry 35% off sticker attached , somehow i forgot to to pay for it on the way out but didnt get caught. it tasted so good.
not my style really, the memories of getting caught for stealing a metal cassette from john menzies on sauchiehall street, glasgow when i was 15 put the shits up me so bad, shoplifting never came into my life since. although i did walk out of a restaurant without paying for a steak not so long ago, but that was another story, a very drunken story. when i can be arsed, the diary will hear about that one day.
the shopping centre was a casting directors dream. it reminded me of the faces you get in the savoy centre in glasgow. the dress sense had no sense. lots of cheap thrown together leggings with flowery prints on blouses and battered housewifes with big hair. the arse end of amsterdam. big bums which i found unusual. we walked around xenos looking for a tape measure and i stood staring at a woman who was bending down showing her g-string riding up the crack of her bottom. i got a hard on for the first time in about a week. must be the alcohol withdrawal.
i'm not one to letch but i was enjoying the fact that i could do this without a care in the world. i never did get to see her face.
back up the high rise, i stood looking out over the lake, below and in fron of me i noticed lines. everything was made up of lines. man made lines. the trees at the front of the lake were all lined. the tram lines. the bike lanes were lined. the tram stop had go fast lines printed on the glass. the lines of the paving and lines of the brick work. the lines on the plaza, the lines on the balcony, the tiny mesh squares on the veranda boxing every detail of the lines within the lines of the squares. an easy drawing for a child to draw if they just drew it square by square making up the view of lines. all man made. the lines on the matt which sat ouside the balcony door, the lines of the door frame. the lines of the lamenate floor that i'd piled up against the wall in lines of ten. the lines of the tape that i masked them together with.
it all looked quite beautiful really. i have to go back and draw this with a ruler and a pencil.
got a text message from doris in london, he says there's some possible freelance in 3 weeks.i miss working with doris. it's been too long. then i got a call from student S , i was late for our photography lesson. so we finished up and i stressed the importance of terry richardson and his appealing simplicity. that and more. S and her boyfriend were both tanned from 4 days in france. peeling even. he came out of the shower bleeding, so we made it a photo opportunity.
good people. hollands finest.
after a nice afternoon of passing on the creative torch. we got a call to do a shoot for a theater company in the oost friday night. low dough but high possibilities. for friends. talented wild friends with endless imagination.
can't wait till tomorrow
lady M didnt show up for band practice, I HOPE SHE'S O.K.. the drums lay untouched. benny J and I (both alcohol free) cranked up the laptop beats, plugged in the groovy retro hired guitar for 3euro 25 cents and tripped out, singing perfect new harmonies to a new song. made up a no wavey nirvana style thing for a laugh and left feeling magic.
picked up my old bike outside S's place and gave Benny J the keys to his all new boneshaker.
bullet pointy part4 but i'm fucking tired. happiness doesnt write so well. i need more pain in my life.
be bad.
over n oot!
i made some homemade bread and humous for breakfast which i eat while cycling with my old scottish china from edinburgh to the apartment.
the views from the balcony were amazing, i got a great idea for a band photoshoot. we'll have to do it guerilla style , some illegal roof climbing with no health and safety will be required, old skool. my favourite.
after a good mornings work we set out to see what was going on in the local shopping complex. i walked out of hema with a bottle of apple juice and boysen berry 35% off sticker attached , somehow i forgot to to pay for it on the way out but didnt get caught. it tasted so good.
not my style really, the memories of getting caught for stealing a metal cassette from john menzies on sauchiehall street, glasgow when i was 15 put the shits up me so bad, shoplifting never came into my life since. although i did walk out of a restaurant without paying for a steak not so long ago, but that was another story, a very drunken story. when i can be arsed, the diary will hear about that one day.
the shopping centre was a casting directors dream. it reminded me of the faces you get in the savoy centre in glasgow. the dress sense had no sense. lots of cheap thrown together leggings with flowery prints on blouses and battered housewifes with big hair. the arse end of amsterdam. big bums which i found unusual. we walked around xenos looking for a tape measure and i stood staring at a woman who was bending down showing her g-string riding up the crack of her bottom. i got a hard on for the first time in about a week. must be the alcohol withdrawal.
i'm not one to letch but i was enjoying the fact that i could do this without a care in the world. i never did get to see her face.
back up the high rise, i stood looking out over the lake, below and in fron of me i noticed lines. everything was made up of lines. man made lines. the trees at the front of the lake were all lined. the tram lines. the bike lanes were lined. the tram stop had go fast lines printed on the glass. the lines of the paving and lines of the brick work. the lines on the plaza, the lines on the balcony, the tiny mesh squares on the veranda boxing every detail of the lines within the lines of the squares. an easy drawing for a child to draw if they just drew it square by square making up the view of lines. all man made. the lines on the matt which sat ouside the balcony door, the lines of the door frame. the lines of the lamenate floor that i'd piled up against the wall in lines of ten. the lines of the tape that i masked them together with.
it all looked quite beautiful really. i have to go back and draw this with a ruler and a pencil.
got a text message from doris in london, he says there's some possible freelance in 3 weeks.i miss working with doris. it's been too long. then i got a call from student S , i was late for our photography lesson. so we finished up and i stressed the importance of terry richardson and his appealing simplicity. that and more. S and her boyfriend were both tanned from 4 days in france. peeling even. he came out of the shower bleeding, so we made it a photo opportunity.
good people. hollands finest.
after a nice afternoon of passing on the creative torch. we got a call to do a shoot for a theater company in the oost friday night. low dough but high possibilities. for friends. talented wild friends with endless imagination.
can't wait till tomorrow
lady M didnt show up for band practice, I HOPE SHE'S O.K.. the drums lay untouched. benny J and I (both alcohol free) cranked up the laptop beats, plugged in the groovy retro hired guitar for 3euro 25 cents and tripped out, singing perfect new harmonies to a new song. made up a no wavey nirvana style thing for a laugh and left feeling magic.
picked up my old bike outside S's place and gave Benny J the keys to his all new boneshaker.
bullet pointy part4 but i'm fucking tired. happiness doesnt write so well. i need more pain in my life.
be bad.
over n oot!
BEYOND BORING Part 6
by Angela Nunscunt on Friday, 22 April 2011 at 00:21
italic is my name. i sway to the side because i'm tired. good tired, well tired.
all you need is work! na na nana na!
*power tools included
floors. laying, muscles appearing. food tastes nicer when it's cooked to order, the son of god 's job. jesus's da.
futuristic laminator
beneath these floors lies gold
i cried when i watched it dissapear
the spacey look
N.A.S.A. 1969
the woods
sweden
all hold hands with the locals and dance a ring of roses
IKEA IKEA IKEALEX
all you need is work! na na nana na!
*power tools included
floors. laying, muscles appearing. food tastes nicer when it's cooked to order, the son of god 's job. jesus's da.
futuristic laminator
beneath these floors lies gold
i cried when i watched it dissapear
the spacey look
N.A.S.A. 1969
the woods
sweden
all hold hands with the locals and dance a ring of roses
IKEA IKEA IKEALEX
BEYOND BORING Part 7
by Angela Nunscunt on Saturday, 23 April 2011 at 01:33
don't eat steak, (repeat) DO NOT EAT STEAK. not only is it a piece of a cow's arse. it makes you think like a prick.
i had steak tonight, or it had me, i'm not quite sure? instant mad cow. or mad bull if youre a bloke. i was all ready to split on the first train out of town. but i'd spent the last of my bread on the steak.
earlier in the day PRE-STEAK: a man from paisley told me he loves the smell of cherry blosom in the park.
an egyptian who i flogged some laminate to on markplaats, called to cancel our appointment, he said,"sorry brother". this made me feel like an earth citizen, not a scottish citizen.
someone mentioned that he too spent some time laminating floors. he said he quit because his knees hurt. since he mentioned this, my knees hurt all afternoon, now they are tender to touch. that never happened yesterday or the day before.
the building site had no cutlery for the steak, so i eat it with a pair of scissors and a small sharp knife. i eat it on the veranda, dreaming of love.... where and when. i like unwritten pages. they can still catch fire without any words on them.
i licked the garlic from the scissors. the steak was raw. i want muscles. i feel something is telling me that there will be a need for people who know how to do things without the use of technology. i've felt this all my life. city life fucks this up.
even the lights at night fuck up our view of the stars. i remember falling on my back while looking at the proper view of them from the isle of ulva. there's perspective and everything! billions of them! like you know, we're living on a planet in the middle of them! who the fuck needs television? just switch off the lights for fuck sake.
well, i'm bored of conspiracy theories now. i believe all of them, sure. there's more to life than most of us know, without any doubt. i just want to get on with the aliens who surround me on pavements, bike paths, roads, buses, trams, parks, pubs, shops, museums, those strange wee arab hangouts i keep seeing but no white man ever enters, souless advertising agency reception areas, people who need time to check you out before they think they can trust you, like with what? a conversation that doesnt feel suspicious? wow! yeah, let's meet each other 8 times over the course of 4 years and then i'll stop talking to you like a condescending cunt.
(funny how they always have english accents, or is that just the way they all talk when they become x-pats?
oh yeah, i forgot about obama, he talks like he's master of the condescending fucking universe.
and my yogi tells me i should give out thoughts of love to people who kill other people for a living.
love is a hard thing to give out to people you hate, and theyre the ones who need it the most.
or is it you who needs it the most?
i know i do.
(fuck spellcheck)
i had steak tonight, or it had me, i'm not quite sure? instant mad cow. or mad bull if youre a bloke. i was all ready to split on the first train out of town. but i'd spent the last of my bread on the steak.
earlier in the day PRE-STEAK: a man from paisley told me he loves the smell of cherry blosom in the park.
an egyptian who i flogged some laminate to on markplaats, called to cancel our appointment, he said,"sorry brother". this made me feel like an earth citizen, not a scottish citizen.
someone mentioned that he too spent some time laminating floors. he said he quit because his knees hurt. since he mentioned this, my knees hurt all afternoon, now they are tender to touch. that never happened yesterday or the day before.
the building site had no cutlery for the steak, so i eat it with a pair of scissors and a small sharp knife. i eat it on the veranda, dreaming of love.... where and when. i like unwritten pages. they can still catch fire without any words on them.
i licked the garlic from the scissors. the steak was raw. i want muscles. i feel something is telling me that there will be a need for people who know how to do things without the use of technology. i've felt this all my life. city life fucks this up.
even the lights at night fuck up our view of the stars. i remember falling on my back while looking at the proper view of them from the isle of ulva. there's perspective and everything! billions of them! like you know, we're living on a planet in the middle of them! who the fuck needs television? just switch off the lights for fuck sake.
well, i'm bored of conspiracy theories now. i believe all of them, sure. there's more to life than most of us know, without any doubt. i just want to get on with the aliens who surround me on pavements, bike paths, roads, buses, trams, parks, pubs, shops, museums, those strange wee arab hangouts i keep seeing but no white man ever enters, souless advertising agency reception areas, people who need time to check you out before they think they can trust you, like with what? a conversation that doesnt feel suspicious? wow! yeah, let's meet each other 8 times over the course of 4 years and then i'll stop talking to you like a condescending cunt.
(funny how they always have english accents, or is that just the way they all talk when they become x-pats?
oh yeah, i forgot about obama, he talks like he's master of the condescending fucking universe.
and my yogi tells me i should give out thoughts of love to people who kill other people for a living.
love is a hard thing to give out to people you hate, and theyre the ones who need it the most.
or is it you who needs it the most?
i know i do.
(fuck spellcheck)
BEYOND BORING Part 8
by Angela Nunscunt on Sunday, 24 April 2011 at 01:10
8.
it had to start somewhere, i'm fucked.
The No.8.
i am a number 8. like hitchcock, like the pool ball.
eternally going round in circles
arriving at the crossroads every moment, sunrise, moon cycle , however i wish to calculate time.
a simple skalectrix set.
driven by some eternal force from the outer and inner cosmos to always come back to the same point.
what have you done?
who are these people?
what is it all about?
oh yeah! that....
or
that
IT only happens when youre not watching.
IT is over before you know IT.
IT is probably a great name for a brand or a band but will be full of shIT.
FUCK it.
back to 8.
schoolstraat 8. the best huis in amsterdam. the best street parties. the best people to have living below you, opposite you, to the left and to the right.
good souls. those who seek out places to dwell for free, the rat race dropouts, all tuned in. like timothy, like allen. like jeremy beadle. christ you got to hand it to them.
i digress....a lot.....so i've been told, "ÿou talk too much!" yeah , well i'm mental, shut it, as i was saying...etc etc....
i digress again. so..you surround yourself with people thinking much along the same lines as you, those who you spend lots of time with or live around you , and you begin to develop special powers you never had before.
or
you surround yourself with people or workmates who believe in some dark, shady deals and you get whats coming i guess. just like a hollywood fucking movie. predictable.
well, i'm going to sleep in the park tonight and see if i get
A. the shit kicked out of me by the cops.
B. a blow job
G. dreams of dogs
7. my bike stolen
U. the memory of my other 16 personalities back
c. a serbian driving liscense
R. a career in TELESALES
A. a knighthood in a film that's being shot till 6am by some students about a man who thinks that "language is a virus", and that by speaking only the number 8 for the rest of his human life, he will save the world from becoming war and anger free.
P. that reminds me, i'm bursting.
tot fucking later!
it had to start somewhere, i'm fucked.
The No.8.
i am a number 8. like hitchcock, like the pool ball.
eternally going round in circles
arriving at the crossroads every moment, sunrise, moon cycle , however i wish to calculate time.
a simple skalectrix set.
driven by some eternal force from the outer and inner cosmos to always come back to the same point.
what have you done?
who are these people?
what is it all about?
oh yeah! that....
or
that
IT only happens when youre not watching.
IT is over before you know IT.
IT is probably a great name for a brand or a band but will be full of shIT.
FUCK it.
back to 8.
schoolstraat 8. the best huis in amsterdam. the best street parties. the best people to have living below you, opposite you, to the left and to the right.
good souls. those who seek out places to dwell for free, the rat race dropouts, all tuned in. like timothy, like allen. like jeremy beadle. christ you got to hand it to them.
i digress....a lot.....so i've been told, "ÿou talk too much!" yeah , well i'm mental, shut it, as i was saying...etc etc....
i digress again. so..you surround yourself with people thinking much along the same lines as you, those who you spend lots of time with or live around you , and you begin to develop special powers you never had before.
or
you surround yourself with people or workmates who believe in some dark, shady deals and you get whats coming i guess. just like a hollywood fucking movie. predictable.
well, i'm going to sleep in the park tonight and see if i get
A. the shit kicked out of me by the cops.
B. a blow job
G. dreams of dogs
7. my bike stolen
U. the memory of my other 16 personalities back
c. a serbian driving liscense
R. a career in TELESALES
A. a knighthood in a film that's being shot till 6am by some students about a man who thinks that "language is a virus", and that by speaking only the number 8 for the rest of his human life, he will save the world from becoming war and anger free.
P. that reminds me, i'm bursting.
tot fucking later!
BEYOND BORING Part 9
by Angela Nunscunt on Monday, 25 April 2011 at 03:01
to note or not to note? that is now no longer the question.
getting results does not necessarily mean you have to play the game. would you consider yourself to be a rogue virus?
"eh aye."
BANG!
one shot
see this? this is this.
see this?
i don't always like an end at a beginning.
i find it mildly patronising.
what gives man? ugh...local community centres...eh....stuff like that...your oxfam. "Aye! but theyre on the make."
how do you know?
"Ay....ah gist ken no? a gist dae right."
THIS IS AN EXPRIMENT IN MARAJUANA Please stop staring at this page, it's rude and makes me feel uncomfortable.
P.S. I WAS ONCE CALLED A NELLYFAG FOR WEARING PINK TROUSERS. I just love that word. In the same 12 hours girls danced around me like they watched too much sex and the city , literally living paralell lives but as real slaves in real time with similar bad timing. i got scared and ran away to the toilets to talk with the toilet lady. found a half gram of coke left in the toilet. then annoyed fuck out of the toilet lady till the place shut.
OUTSIDE/INSIDE IS A BALANCE.
i witnessed a row of three pairs of crows kissing today at the lake by osdorp, as i was spraying my bike gold.
that was reality.
getting results does not necessarily mean you have to play the game. would you consider yourself to be a rogue virus?
"eh aye."
BANG!
one shot
see this? this is this.
see this?
i don't always like an end at a beginning.
i find it mildly patronising.
what gives man? ugh...local community centres...eh....stuff like that...your oxfam. "Aye! but theyre on the make."
how do you know?
"Ay....ah gist ken no? a gist dae right."
THIS IS AN EXPRIMENT IN MARAJUANA Please stop staring at this page, it's rude and makes me feel uncomfortable.
P.S. I WAS ONCE CALLED A NELLYFAG FOR WEARING PINK TROUSERS. I just love that word. In the same 12 hours girls danced around me like they watched too much sex and the city , literally living paralell lives but as real slaves in real time with similar bad timing. i got scared and ran away to the toilets to talk with the toilet lady. found a half gram of coke left in the toilet. then annoyed fuck out of the toilet lady till the place shut.
OUTSIDE/INSIDE IS A BALANCE.
i witnessed a row of three pairs of crows kissing today at the lake by osdorp, as i was spraying my bike gold.
that was reality.
BEYOND BOARDING PASS Seat No. 10a and b.
by Angela Nunscunt on Thursday, 05 May 2011 at 23:11
i i i i i
s.f.x. lulu's car starting in the morning.
i see you.
i do. it's my imagination here.
your in an avatar body, not bad. they didn't loose your heart on looks. glad your not blu like the rest. or have those dodgy cats eyes. your in touch with aywah i hear. can he get any..good. so we meet soon yeah.
feel like a londoner with all these yeah's. losing my aye's. which i never really say unless i get infected with my favourite virus of them all, a scottish accent, you can tell there are mountains there. sea and rain. people always forget the sun (in winter) i'll stop there before i confuse myself.
i love you.
i want to go now. i shall call this A.
b.
the pastor called today at 7.25 a.m.
he came in contasti black & white as usual.
sweating
troubled
i asked, "hey mr man, you been changing again?"
"no fuck off!" he replied.
i told him it was the tuesday blues and quickly ended our guitar lesson on that note.
he threw up on my twelve string
have you any idea how long it took to clean that thing.
she took her wig off. i forgave her.
better go, my nana is calling from another dimension.
s.f.x. lulu's car starting in the morning.
i see you.
i do. it's my imagination here.
your in an avatar body, not bad. they didn't loose your heart on looks. glad your not blu like the rest. or have those dodgy cats eyes. your in touch with aywah i hear. can he get any..good. so we meet soon yeah.
feel like a londoner with all these yeah's. losing my aye's. which i never really say unless i get infected with my favourite virus of them all, a scottish accent, you can tell there are mountains there. sea and rain. people always forget the sun (in winter) i'll stop there before i confuse myself.
i love you.
i want to go now. i shall call this A.
b.
the pastor called today at 7.25 a.m.
he came in contasti black & white as usual.
sweating
troubled
i asked, "hey mr man, you been changing again?"
"no fuck off!" he replied.
i told him it was the tuesday blues and quickly ended our guitar lesson on that note.
he threw up on my twelve string
have you any idea how long it took to clean that thing.
she took her wig off. i forgave her.
better go, my nana is calling from another dimension.
BEYOND BORING Part 11 (or tips on how to be normal)
by Angela Nunscunt on Friday, 06 May 2011 at 01:15
this diary is a mirror. my mirror. your mirror if we're really "all one... man".
sometimes you don't like what you see.
i will never know. and neither will you if you don't know what you are.
do you know who you are?
i'm guessing you are part of every single thing you wish you were and wish you were not. every single little thing that has ever happened to you. all the lovers. all the friends. all the ones you ran away from and all the ones you ran to, or didn't knowingly.
a slow zeppelinish guitar. deep and dark. a man whistles into a microphone, "i don't know who is doing this?"
do you remember when you were in the air. gymnastics or diving from a rock. that feeling, over and over. no end to it.
now breath in.
deep from the belly.
hold it
think about your hands and your feet, inside, light pushing out.
touching everyone else
and people you think you hate but you don't because youre better than that.
your lovely
youre my facebook friend
all my friends are lovely
it's just me youve got to watch out for
i know who i am (repetitious)
do you?
good. i'm glad. either way it doesnt matter. just stay alive and don't listen to other people too much.
wear more dresses
grow your own vegetables
raise your higher state of consciousness
activate your other 12 strands of d.n.a.
think once, think twice, think mashed potato and jam as deaf senior citizen.
take more pictures of your life but from a different angle.
buy a baboon, train it to work 20 hour shifts at the KFC. just so you can just sit and pick off and eat the secret recipe skin, laughing at the suckers with only three pieces.
steal money from the bank.
start a public riot in ikea, hold the staff hostage, force them to build your ideal home inside the shop. all hide in a secret caravan outside the building for a year. go back inside and squat it for life. or until the style becomes futuristic chintz or your bored of the pillow talk with the staff.
teach the world to sing.
eat shoarma for a week and kiss lambs simultaneously
try and start a new country
try and be yourself
but who are you?
what part of you was not made up by those around you or were around you.
we're all one see.
back to normal.
sometimes you don't like what you see.
i will never know. and neither will you if you don't know what you are.
do you know who you are?
i'm guessing you are part of every single thing you wish you were and wish you were not. every single little thing that has ever happened to you. all the lovers. all the friends. all the ones you ran away from and all the ones you ran to, or didn't knowingly.
a slow zeppelinish guitar. deep and dark. a man whistles into a microphone, "i don't know who is doing this?"
do you remember when you were in the air. gymnastics or diving from a rock. that feeling, over and over. no end to it.
now breath in.
deep from the belly.
hold it
think about your hands and your feet, inside, light pushing out.
touching everyone else
and people you think you hate but you don't because youre better than that.
your lovely
youre my facebook friend
all my friends are lovely
it's just me youve got to watch out for
i know who i am (repetitious)
do you?
good. i'm glad. either way it doesnt matter. just stay alive and don't listen to other people too much.
wear more dresses
grow your own vegetables
raise your higher state of consciousness
activate your other 12 strands of d.n.a.
think once, think twice, think mashed potato and jam as deaf senior citizen.
take more pictures of your life but from a different angle.
buy a baboon, train it to work 20 hour shifts at the KFC. just so you can just sit and pick off and eat the secret recipe skin, laughing at the suckers with only three pieces.
steal money from the bank.
start a public riot in ikea, hold the staff hostage, force them to build your ideal home inside the shop. all hide in a secret caravan outside the building for a year. go back inside and squat it for life. or until the style becomes futuristic chintz or your bored of the pillow talk with the staff.
teach the world to sing.
eat shoarma for a week and kiss lambs simultaneously
try and start a new country
try and be yourself
but who are you?
what part of you was not made up by those around you or were around you.
we're all one see.
back to normal.
BEYOND BORING Part 12
by Angela Nunscunt on Tuesday, 17 May 2011 at 14:01
today i'm practicing real life. wifi in the city. coffee and wet laundry that came out of a broken launderette. i was only trying to be a good boy. shine in the rain even. the machine eating up 12 euro , the self service phone number engaged. it's a wet day in amsterdam inside and out. is this karma for pretending to be someone i havent been in about 5 years. an adman (sfx: me laughing at myself). life in bohemia is a tough gig to keep up. i want to make films and music. well, i still do but i only like it when it's underground. the underground of the underground, virtually hidden but openly available in the darkness. when people are lost, they find it. only then is it truelly of worth.
or is that filed under romantic dreams Page No. 0000000000000000000000000000000000000000000001
PRECIOUS MOMENTS plays in the background of this coffeeshop. is this the last day of bohem?
a meeting with 'the man' tomorrow morning will certainly play a major role in my future.
that's if the future exists? does it? youre in the present, right now, no, now, yes, now , no was the past. now.
wild 60's analogue guitar screams through the emptyness of a daytime outer centrum slice of paradise. everything i own in storage. floating. free. i could do anything, be anything.
i'm doing what i want to do. in this moment.
reality teaches us that this can't last forever. man, i had my shit this morning at the launderette, i even enjoyed it! i laughed in an empty launderette. a crime in certain circles. i pray we never meet.
CUT TO
CHANCE MEETING IN THE PARK WITH HEADHUNTER
"alaaaaaaaaaayx, advertising's a business. you don't take it seriously darling. what are we gonna do about you? reeeeeeeeally? your soooooooo talented, my mum always said that about you, he's so talented that boy".
do all questions have to have answers?
should i answer that?
mmmm heineken. the old long lunch adman appears through my jumper, his two tone navy blue zoot suit, bleached hair, diesel (when it was cool) 70's retro flight bag dry's my laundry. i am cleansed. drinking and smoking in style. no football colours to give this citizen licsense to spell badly.
RIPPLE DISSOLVE
ajax win the cup or a game or something big in a reality i don't live in but visit like a prisoner.
i aim for de balie but that's like visiting someone who lives on the penalty spot of a world cup final.
riot police and broken bottles. the aftermath. my bike tires turn and say, 'don't ride me!'
i push through the last of the drunken football. deflated leather red and white sack. the smell of a thousand bladders or more. a woman watches me wretch from the theatre steps. money.
i stop to make a phone call in de pijp , a group of three girls are laughing, a red faced fan bounces from one foot to the other, if there was music it would be mogwai on a badly scratched c.d.
early man sfx. the girls laugh again, a similar sound has come from across the centurbaan. a mating call. the last hope of survival for the species. two steaming ajax fans. both men.
football.
fitba!
my favourite word of the 70's, it taught me about nature, peace and adventure.
i ran to the hills.
fuck fitba!
shite vegas would never have happened if fitba had it's evil way with my legs. count the smiles of an audience dancing and laughing at the same time and it stays with you for as long as you let it, without looking too much of a dafty and getting your head kicked in for not growling like the rest of the pyjama people.
aaaah....fuck..... never could write on beer.
MY JUMPER SAYS IT'S JUNE
AND THE THREE DEGREES ARE SINGING WHEN WILL I SEE YOU AGAIN
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=T6fVDAjs9f0
or is that filed under romantic dreams Page No. 0000000000000000000000000000000000000000000001
PRECIOUS MOMENTS plays in the background of this coffeeshop. is this the last day of bohem?
a meeting with 'the man' tomorrow morning will certainly play a major role in my future.
that's if the future exists? does it? youre in the present, right now, no, now, yes, now , no was the past. now.
wild 60's analogue guitar screams through the emptyness of a daytime outer centrum slice of paradise. everything i own in storage. floating. free. i could do anything, be anything.
i'm doing what i want to do. in this moment.
reality teaches us that this can't last forever. man, i had my shit this morning at the launderette, i even enjoyed it! i laughed in an empty launderette. a crime in certain circles. i pray we never meet.
CUT TO
CHANCE MEETING IN THE PARK WITH HEADHUNTER
"alaaaaaaaaaayx, advertising's a business. you don't take it seriously darling. what are we gonna do about you? reeeeeeeeally? your soooooooo talented, my mum always said that about you, he's so talented that boy".
do all questions have to have answers?
should i answer that?
mmmm heineken. the old long lunch adman appears through my jumper, his two tone navy blue zoot suit, bleached hair, diesel (when it was cool) 70's retro flight bag dry's my laundry. i am cleansed. drinking and smoking in style. no football colours to give this citizen licsense to spell badly.
RIPPLE DISSOLVE
ajax win the cup or a game or something big in a reality i don't live in but visit like a prisoner.
i aim for de balie but that's like visiting someone who lives on the penalty spot of a world cup final.
riot police and broken bottles. the aftermath. my bike tires turn and say, 'don't ride me!'
i push through the last of the drunken football. deflated leather red and white sack. the smell of a thousand bladders or more. a woman watches me wretch from the theatre steps. money.
i stop to make a phone call in de pijp , a group of three girls are laughing, a red faced fan bounces from one foot to the other, if there was music it would be mogwai on a badly scratched c.d.
early man sfx. the girls laugh again, a similar sound has come from across the centurbaan. a mating call. the last hope of survival for the species. two steaming ajax fans. both men.
football.
fitba!
my favourite word of the 70's, it taught me about nature, peace and adventure.
i ran to the hills.
fuck fitba!
shite vegas would never have happened if fitba had it's evil way with my legs. count the smiles of an audience dancing and laughing at the same time and it stays with you for as long as you let it, without looking too much of a dafty and getting your head kicked in for not growling like the rest of the pyjama people.
aaaah....fuck..... never could write on beer.
MY JUMPER SAYS IT'S JUNE
AND THE THREE DEGREES ARE SINGING WHEN WILL I SEE YOU AGAIN
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=T6fVDAjs9f0
BEYOND BORING Part 13
by Angela Nunscunt on Tuesday, 24 May 2011 at 16:44
i woke up this afternoon. not this morning. i didnt get myself a beer. i had asparagus soup.
i thought of band practice last night. how fucking exciting it sounded and why i never want to play in a band ever again in my fucking life.
i like to do things the wrong way around, or so it seems. it's never really intentional. it just happens. it always works out. i'm always satisfied with the end result. it always teaches me things, suprises me. takes me somewhere i've never been before.
people want control. i had a girlfriend once who said that being out of control is also a form of control.
the sex pistols were far from anarchy, they were a tight band. they had a fucking great sound. great chords. great characters. ultimate rock n roll. anger and satisfaction. too perfect even.
making a noise is easy. but why? what's the point? sometimes we just do things to get attention. we push people, nudge them, scream in their ear or ignore them. silence can be louder than any marshall amp.
my ego died years ago. i sing because it feels good. no-one tells me to shut up. i take this as a sign that i must be doing something good. so i keep on doing it.
talking on the other hand gets me into trouble, i monologue, go off in tangents, aim to finish my story eventually and get to the point. people attempt to break the flow and sometimes do. in a song no-one can fuck with the flow, the music keeps their distance. in small venues, there's even a gap between the stage and the audience, made by the crowd, or not made by them.
the best art is not something you've never seen before, it's a combination of what has passed in certain elite circles and what the public can accept now as new. the real new is something people can't accept.
how can you accept something you don't understand?
*JUST ADD MONEY
i remember a guy from glasgow art school who said that he was pissed off that R.E.M. were becoming mainstream with that orange crush song.
he'd been a big fan of their music up until that point. hearing it on prime time radio one was too much for him. he wanted it to live permanently in john peel's record collection and his. woe be'tide anyone UNCOOL living in mainstream society listening to HIS band.
if self righteousness was a crime. who would be qualified to judge such behaviour? i can think of some people in my facebook friends list who would qualify for this position easily.
they do it everyday. (there we go, i just qualified)
but seriously i'm just having a laugh.
killing time. waiting on someone or something to bite me on the arse. and i'll keep doing it till that happens. or get deleted for profanity
or gang raped intellectually by mass idiocy (is that how you spell it?)
i don't wonder what i'm going to think when i wake up tomorrow.
NOTE: My words are becoming less in numbers and my openess regarding personal detail has been affected by something external but i'm not quite sure where it's coming from. I managed to get back to drinking alcohol again in a nice steady sociable manner, this in turn calmed down my joint smoking. i met someone i havent seen in 16 years, it was like putting on an old pair of shoes, i kissed a beautiful girl for the first time in a year and i'm still homeless and annoying the fuck out of my friends. i was going to cancel MyDadsMateAlan @friekfest on saturday but the airline sponsored ash cloud has stopped all flights in and out of scotland, so we're gonna play anway, with or without the ideal amount of practice required. see you there this weekend if you fancy a trip to amsterdam noord and the smell of patchouli, tequilla and speed.
i thought of band practice last night. how fucking exciting it sounded and why i never want to play in a band ever again in my fucking life.
i like to do things the wrong way around, or so it seems. it's never really intentional. it just happens. it always works out. i'm always satisfied with the end result. it always teaches me things, suprises me. takes me somewhere i've never been before.
people want control. i had a girlfriend once who said that being out of control is also a form of control.
the sex pistols were far from anarchy, they were a tight band. they had a fucking great sound. great chords. great characters. ultimate rock n roll. anger and satisfaction. too perfect even.
making a noise is easy. but why? what's the point? sometimes we just do things to get attention. we push people, nudge them, scream in their ear or ignore them. silence can be louder than any marshall amp.
my ego died years ago. i sing because it feels good. no-one tells me to shut up. i take this as a sign that i must be doing something good. so i keep on doing it.
talking on the other hand gets me into trouble, i monologue, go off in tangents, aim to finish my story eventually and get to the point. people attempt to break the flow and sometimes do. in a song no-one can fuck with the flow, the music keeps their distance. in small venues, there's even a gap between the stage and the audience, made by the crowd, or not made by them.
the best art is not something you've never seen before, it's a combination of what has passed in certain elite circles and what the public can accept now as new. the real new is something people can't accept.
how can you accept something you don't understand?
*JUST ADD MONEY
i remember a guy from glasgow art school who said that he was pissed off that R.E.M. were becoming mainstream with that orange crush song.
he'd been a big fan of their music up until that point. hearing it on prime time radio one was too much for him. he wanted it to live permanently in john peel's record collection and his. woe be'tide anyone UNCOOL living in mainstream society listening to HIS band.
if self righteousness was a crime. who would be qualified to judge such behaviour? i can think of some people in my facebook friends list who would qualify for this position easily.
they do it everyday. (there we go, i just qualified)
but seriously i'm just having a laugh.
killing time. waiting on someone or something to bite me on the arse. and i'll keep doing it till that happens. or get deleted for profanity
or gang raped intellectually by mass idiocy (is that how you spell it?)
i don't wonder what i'm going to think when i wake up tomorrow.
NOTE: My words are becoming less in numbers and my openess regarding personal detail has been affected by something external but i'm not quite sure where it's coming from. I managed to get back to drinking alcohol again in a nice steady sociable manner, this in turn calmed down my joint smoking. i met someone i havent seen in 16 years, it was like putting on an old pair of shoes, i kissed a beautiful girl for the first time in a year and i'm still homeless and annoying the fuck out of my friends. i was going to cancel MyDadsMateAlan @friekfest on saturday but the airline sponsored ash cloud has stopped all flights in and out of scotland, so we're gonna play anway, with or without the ideal amount of practice required. see you there this weekend if you fancy a trip to amsterdam noord and the smell of patchouli, tequilla and speed.
BEYOND BORING Part 14 (illegal & just plain wrong but a turn on if truth be told)
by Angela Nunscunt on Thursday, 02 June 2011 at 00:54
I'm bad. I am a bad man. I've seen things you people wouldnt believe. And so it's pointless talking about it here. maybe when you grow up, mature, you know, like an adult, like a mature person, like someone in authority, a judge or a priest or a politician, theyre mature right?
of course they are.
like an old cheese, they stink too.
so. by all accounts i should be in the full swing of a comedown. some call it the tuesday blues, but i always seem to get it on a wednesday. maybe because i don't stop till the sunday night or i went to optimo too much?
it's been a while, i don't do this very often, not now i'm m.a.t.u.r.e.
but i did. ha ha ha aha ha ahakjqd/ojefpldepgf,omv,[pw]x.2orm3irmvot pa,co'c[,rqiu oritrc,'[pot
(there's a code in there if youre a cop)
christ, i was asked if i was a cop by a paranoid greek osteopath a couple of years ago, just after he did my back in, just after he rolled some of his homegrown, just after i'd taken him to my girlfriends fucking degree show. like i'd go to such great lengths to nail a guy for having one homegrown plant of weed too many?
IF i was a cop.
I bumped into him in the market the other day, he still thinks i'm a cop, i can see it in his eyes. his dark alien-lifeform eyes. i swear i think he's a spy of some kind. a psy-op. half black op U.S. alien - half greek londoner. He's out there in amsterdam, seriously folks, watch out. He asks way too many questions for a bone healer.
i digress.
the experiment is working, i drank a glass and a half of red wine with dinner, it turned my conversation skills from listener to talker, just when i was getting a hang on the listening bit. hearing all about australia and picturing in my minds eye the dry heat and fucked looking abo's. the white immigrants taking longer looks at their daughters in the river as another few beers dissapear into their fat hairy bellies. outdoing each other with kellogs frostie tales. i couldnt help thinking of the black fascist. she certainly made an impression on me when she charged me 100euro when i signed the release form of my old house. why the fuck did i sign something i couldnt even undestand? i was fucking stoned. she said 9am. i was there, she arrived at 1pm. the place was freezing , it was january, the heater gone, the place empty. keeping me in that fucking fridge for a whole morning, no way, i had to ease the situation, dream a little, so i had my last trip to the coffeeshop. i pre-rolled polem number. how was i to know there was 10 pallettes of wood up in the loft that i'd get charged a 100 euro for?
No question, she was just doing her job. the job of a fascist. a black fascist. from the surinam. robbed and raped by a white dutchman many moons ago. bound and shipped for slavery. the golden age they called it.
and now she's robbing a white scotsman. white/black there's no fucking difference. all cunts, all cool, all just doing there jobs or turning a blind eye to the laws of their jobs to help the common man. give him that little bit extra co's they can. just like i did down the job centre in london in '89. "it's alright mate, i'll just sign you on and say you went for the job yeah?" LAAVLY SWEET, FANKS BRUV, YOU SCOTS AIN'T THAT BAD A'TER ALL INTCHA!"
This didn't last too long. I was later to become a tartan fascist when i took a job in advertising.
BUY THIS! YOU STUPID FUCKING TELEVISION JUNKIE BRAINWASHED LUMP OF UGLY WHITE,BLACK,BROWN,YELLOW SO CALLED BRITISH HUMAN PIECE OF SHIT!
YOURE SO FUCKING DUMB, EVEN 20 YEARS LATER WHEN THEY HAVE A THING CALLED THE INTERNET AND YOU CAN FIND NEW WAYS OF EDUCATING YOURSELF YOU WILL STILL REFER TO THE SHIT YOU WATCH ON TV AS IF IT'S JUST A COMMON GIVEN FUCKING WAY OF LIFE. YOU ARE SO FUCKING DUMB I MAY EVEN AFTER A CRAPPY ATTEMPT AT MAKING SOME SHITASS FUCKING MUSIC WHEN THERES FUCK ALL MONEY TO BE MADE IN THE MUSIC INDUSTRY ANYMORE I'LL TAKE ANOTHER SWING AT YOU VIA ADLAND IF ANY OF THE CUNTS I DIDNT PISS OFF WILL HAVE ME BACK TO FUCK YOU UP AGAIN INTO MORE OF THE SAME SHIT AS BEFORE ONLY MUCH MUCH FUNNIER AS MY EGO HAS GOT JUST AS LARGE AS YOUR BRAIN HAS GOT SMALLER OVER THE YEARS.
FELLOW CITIZEN.
oO O.k. the comedown is definately in effect here. i know this side of myself. i'm familiar with him or her?
sounds like an ex-girlfriend i once had, piss artist.
so the weekend was very very.
so good in fact that it didnt bother me in slightest that we were put on last and our sound was cut off after only two songs.
bloodylekker didn't think so, he split immediately and i don't blame him. so did the rest of our entourage.
i stayed on. i had to. i wanted to. it was festival time. i'd made friends the night before and i just had to see if there was still a ledge at the edge.
Sometimes you have to drown yourself to feel yourself, to choke and throw up every piece of that shitty life you think makes you who you are. because you know what? you have no fucking idea who you are.
youre a dumb fuck and you'll keep on being a dumb fuck. if youre ego doesnt get the better of you, a friend or partner certainly will. or a job. or a fucking dream you've been trying to fulfill.
or a drug or your diet you fat fuck!
so what's it gonna be this weekend?
a quiet one?
good luck assholes!
P.S. THIS WAS MY COMEDOWN.
Next week we'll be watching sharon eat an organic cucumber with her fanny.
of course they are.
like an old cheese, they stink too.
so. by all accounts i should be in the full swing of a comedown. some call it the tuesday blues, but i always seem to get it on a wednesday. maybe because i don't stop till the sunday night or i went to optimo too much?
it's been a while, i don't do this very often, not now i'm m.a.t.u.r.e.
but i did. ha ha ha aha ha ahakjqd/ojefpldepgf,omv,[pw]x.2orm3irmvot pa,co'c[,rqiu oritrc,'[pot
(there's a code in there if youre a cop)
christ, i was asked if i was a cop by a paranoid greek osteopath a couple of years ago, just after he did my back in, just after he rolled some of his homegrown, just after i'd taken him to my girlfriends fucking degree show. like i'd go to such great lengths to nail a guy for having one homegrown plant of weed too many?
IF i was a cop.
I bumped into him in the market the other day, he still thinks i'm a cop, i can see it in his eyes. his dark alien-lifeform eyes. i swear i think he's a spy of some kind. a psy-op. half black op U.S. alien - half greek londoner. He's out there in amsterdam, seriously folks, watch out. He asks way too many questions for a bone healer.
i digress.
the experiment is working, i drank a glass and a half of red wine with dinner, it turned my conversation skills from listener to talker, just when i was getting a hang on the listening bit. hearing all about australia and picturing in my minds eye the dry heat and fucked looking abo's. the white immigrants taking longer looks at their daughters in the river as another few beers dissapear into their fat hairy bellies. outdoing each other with kellogs frostie tales. i couldnt help thinking of the black fascist. she certainly made an impression on me when she charged me 100euro when i signed the release form of my old house. why the fuck did i sign something i couldnt even undestand? i was fucking stoned. she said 9am. i was there, she arrived at 1pm. the place was freezing , it was january, the heater gone, the place empty. keeping me in that fucking fridge for a whole morning, no way, i had to ease the situation, dream a little, so i had my last trip to the coffeeshop. i pre-rolled polem number. how was i to know there was 10 pallettes of wood up in the loft that i'd get charged a 100 euro for?
No question, she was just doing her job. the job of a fascist. a black fascist. from the surinam. robbed and raped by a white dutchman many moons ago. bound and shipped for slavery. the golden age they called it.
and now she's robbing a white scotsman. white/black there's no fucking difference. all cunts, all cool, all just doing there jobs or turning a blind eye to the laws of their jobs to help the common man. give him that little bit extra co's they can. just like i did down the job centre in london in '89. "it's alright mate, i'll just sign you on and say you went for the job yeah?" LAAVLY SWEET, FANKS BRUV, YOU SCOTS AIN'T THAT BAD A'TER ALL INTCHA!"
This didn't last too long. I was later to become a tartan fascist when i took a job in advertising.
BUY THIS! YOU STUPID FUCKING TELEVISION JUNKIE BRAINWASHED LUMP OF UGLY WHITE,BLACK,BROWN,YELLOW SO CALLED BRITISH HUMAN PIECE OF SHIT!
YOURE SO FUCKING DUMB, EVEN 20 YEARS LATER WHEN THEY HAVE A THING CALLED THE INTERNET AND YOU CAN FIND NEW WAYS OF EDUCATING YOURSELF YOU WILL STILL REFER TO THE SHIT YOU WATCH ON TV AS IF IT'S JUST A COMMON GIVEN FUCKING WAY OF LIFE. YOU ARE SO FUCKING DUMB I MAY EVEN AFTER A CRAPPY ATTEMPT AT MAKING SOME SHITASS FUCKING MUSIC WHEN THERES FUCK ALL MONEY TO BE MADE IN THE MUSIC INDUSTRY ANYMORE I'LL TAKE ANOTHER SWING AT YOU VIA ADLAND IF ANY OF THE CUNTS I DIDNT PISS OFF WILL HAVE ME BACK TO FUCK YOU UP AGAIN INTO MORE OF THE SAME SHIT AS BEFORE ONLY MUCH MUCH FUNNIER AS MY EGO HAS GOT JUST AS LARGE AS YOUR BRAIN HAS GOT SMALLER OVER THE YEARS.
FELLOW CITIZEN.
oO O.k. the comedown is definately in effect here. i know this side of myself. i'm familiar with him or her?
sounds like an ex-girlfriend i once had, piss artist.
so the weekend was very very.
so good in fact that it didnt bother me in slightest that we were put on last and our sound was cut off after only two songs.
bloodylekker didn't think so, he split immediately and i don't blame him. so did the rest of our entourage.
i stayed on. i had to. i wanted to. it was festival time. i'd made friends the night before and i just had to see if there was still a ledge at the edge.
Sometimes you have to drown yourself to feel yourself, to choke and throw up every piece of that shitty life you think makes you who you are. because you know what? you have no fucking idea who you are.
youre a dumb fuck and you'll keep on being a dumb fuck. if youre ego doesnt get the better of you, a friend or partner certainly will. or a job. or a fucking dream you've been trying to fulfill.
or a drug or your diet you fat fuck!
so what's it gonna be this weekend?
a quiet one?
good luck assholes!
P.S. THIS WAS MY COMEDOWN.
Next week we'll be watching sharon eat an organic cucumber with her fanny.
BEYOND BORING Part 15
by Angela Nunscunt on Saturday, 04 June 2011 at 14:52
I finished roughly an hour and a half of meditation. It was a tough one to break on through to the other side. So many issues flying around my head: JOBLESS HOMELESS PENNILESS WOMANLESS. Still. nothing to lose. Somehow it all disappeared and I hit the happy darkness, some colour, shapes, then tears flowing from the sides of each eye. tears of joy. tears of love. i could feel everyone around me, all my friends, all the people i bumped into last week and the week before that. like DMT only without the 3 month depression.
I saw people I've never met. Somewhere out there i heard my inner voice calling, "LOVE EVERYONE, HATE DOES NOT EXIST ANYMORE". but not in that order, it was telepathic, it came in waves of emotion. I'd spent most of the last two weeks trying to move any physical sensations/reactions from my belly to my heart, conscious of the current masculine to feminine changes of the earth.
Groundwork for today's lesson.
I practiced a little of the earth healing exercise, i wasnt prepared. way too much of everything last weekend and a thursday new friday to finish it off had taken it's toll. so i bowed out. happy with the love thang. happy without hate.
i made some green tea and watched LANDSCAPE IN THE MIST by Theo Angelopoulos. It was always going to get heavy, the war in greece fucked him that way. He took me once again to that special place. A billion light years from hollyjood. The long shot artist, the master. Running away is not a crime, it's nature taking it's course. Two films in one week with a child rape scene; (TWO WOMEN by VITTORIO DE SICCA, 1961). What did I do to deserve this? Or are we missing something? war continues as you sip your tea. children cry not for the latest app or fresh pamper. Death is as important as life. Pain and suffering is more important than happiness and vitality. If we conquer these things first, only then can we be truelly happy. If you were a fish, Which fish would you be? A whale? A fucking dolphin? Oh look at me i'm soooooo intelligent. Or a shark? Survival of the fittest. Get out your I-phone and fire someone because you can. Someone elses downfall is your success. I don't know where the fuck i'm going with this?
have a great weekend, the sun is shining and it's free.
P.S. I remember! So I had the big love thing going on with the meditation, LOVE EVERYONE ETC.
Then I got on facebook and noticed an old friend on the 2 suggested friends icon, so happily added them. I then scrolled down the list of all the faces, spotting him, her, this and that face. Slowly editing them out of any potential liason. Nah, nup, neee! Refusing to add, pre-empting knock backs, pre-empting ill comments on my blog. ill-ing out my virtual world.
LOVE EVERYONE?
C'mon! Who are you kidding?
I saw people I've never met. Somewhere out there i heard my inner voice calling, "LOVE EVERYONE, HATE DOES NOT EXIST ANYMORE". but not in that order, it was telepathic, it came in waves of emotion. I'd spent most of the last two weeks trying to move any physical sensations/reactions from my belly to my heart, conscious of the current masculine to feminine changes of the earth.
Groundwork for today's lesson.
I practiced a little of the earth healing exercise, i wasnt prepared. way too much of everything last weekend and a thursday new friday to finish it off had taken it's toll. so i bowed out. happy with the love thang. happy without hate.
i made some green tea and watched LANDSCAPE IN THE MIST by Theo Angelopoulos. It was always going to get heavy, the war in greece fucked him that way. He took me once again to that special place. A billion light years from hollyjood. The long shot artist, the master. Running away is not a crime, it's nature taking it's course. Two films in one week with a child rape scene; (TWO WOMEN by VITTORIO DE SICCA, 1961). What did I do to deserve this? Or are we missing something? war continues as you sip your tea. children cry not for the latest app or fresh pamper. Death is as important as life. Pain and suffering is more important than happiness and vitality. If we conquer these things first, only then can we be truelly happy. If you were a fish, Which fish would you be? A whale? A fucking dolphin? Oh look at me i'm soooooo intelligent. Or a shark? Survival of the fittest. Get out your I-phone and fire someone because you can. Someone elses downfall is your success. I don't know where the fuck i'm going with this?
have a great weekend, the sun is shining and it's free.
P.S. I remember! So I had the big love thing going on with the meditation, LOVE EVERYONE ETC.
Then I got on facebook and noticed an old friend on the 2 suggested friends icon, so happily added them. I then scrolled down the list of all the faces, spotting him, her, this and that face. Slowly editing them out of any potential liason. Nah, nup, neee! Refusing to add, pre-empting knock backs, pre-empting ill comments on my blog. ill-ing out my virtual world.
LOVE EVERYONE?
C'mon! Who are you kidding?
BEYOND BORING Part Start.
by Angela Nunscunt on Tuesday, 28 June 2011 at 02:47
Emotions racing faster than i could cycle back from sarphatti park. we drank a bottle of wine and smoked like kids in the dark. 8 years of age as I'd decided. 16 or 18 on the outside. no hard on otherwise. I love the fact I can write what I want on my own terms. You should try it. seriously. or not so seriously. Blonde's I never normally go for blondes. And I didn't but I did kind of. sort of, you know, I set a very long stopwatch. Way beyond this occupation. other realms of time, not even time could understand. right there. you know?
The bridge over the canal at the top of the overtoom opened. The first time I saw it do open and show it's dutch iron workmanship for about a year and a half, yet I cross it approx 0.5 times a day.
Watching the electric tram line cables disappear up into the hot dark sky, D dropped a text from london. Gangster shit going down. All an act. Film. Excitement about the move. Friends are uppers, who needs drugs?
The big long boat passed through the road. It's name was RESIDENCE. No word of a lie.
I amsterfuckingdam my arse. am dam. just am dam. just am.
it's my home. it's where i've been and seen just about every fucking feeling, all the drought and all the creme.
i'll miss you.
always got a surprise if i'm bored of the liberal lies. it's you! i just bumped into you. fancy that or take it for granted. not now. i can feel you slip away. but i hold you with my ART. a silent HE. what? me? silent?
widadkevinbendimadubravkacattiillisatamaraserenaserenathijsandclairepeteandmagdatalliraymariekakristinageorg
ietobyAnAilonamaxpeijteririshchriskerrysimonsimondougpruedjbloodylekkererinaaronjodipennymarjorieceliae
rikjohandeclangarechbillivanillijoniranmichelmichelejalinkarowiniadanzanydaviddimitriliopolinahowiejaneGshamiro
slimcoleraymullatcarlosjerrymilanmauricerubydaisylindsayboorsambrosdavedaveenginmaxmaxrosierosejelenajan-willemkristinajimschoolstraatneighbourspablomickpaulsafiracatandfraseryorisandmirimbaiandthegirlsemmaunclejohn
simoneandemmaandscarlettkimrichardlozsimonerogierrogiermarcomarcostefstephi'mopentoeditthistilligetyouallin.....
time to roll that last? joint. omg.lol.wtf.smc.
i'm lost.
LIFE WILL NEVER BE THE SAME AGAIN.
More time to speak. Less time to love a male scottish accent.
An average amsterdam.
Make up the rest in your head. I know I will.
Eat more.
Have more in your pocket to buy drinks for yourself.
look at people with more hair.
don't see a golden bike with a slight incline to the right.
have more skins in the kashmir lounge
watch his beard grow grey'er as the funk flows
dance with the silly negros
eat more turks pizza
met kip in the happy doner
bass and drum .....cheeky!
hum the silent points where the bar used to be
where lesley ran the bar
where presley played my guitar
where jacek cut his jib
where punk never showed
but the stones were always free
the long drawn out demise of the vaag
i remember i remember and i was there, you cliched fucking square
the dope on rope that lead to swimming phones
the bones of cat
the zones a student card and sportstraat
i sometimes cycle past thinking how did we get to that?
lucky
strong and everything they say we should do is wrong.
move along.
my feet hurt last night, blisters from walking
is this how it's going to be
no bike
no easy way home
all change
mind the gap and all that fucking crap.
be positive
ro
i her yo
go
go go go
go go go
d d d d d d d
in that order
stop.
this is getting too real for me
that rhymes with v.d.
but i'm really gonna miss you see
i'm the unoriginal
born to kill
the times we have ahead
like i said the last time i saw you
it doesnt matter what i said
it's how i saw you.
bed.
The bridge over the canal at the top of the overtoom opened. The first time I saw it do open and show it's dutch iron workmanship for about a year and a half, yet I cross it approx 0.5 times a day.
Watching the electric tram line cables disappear up into the hot dark sky, D dropped a text from london. Gangster shit going down. All an act. Film. Excitement about the move. Friends are uppers, who needs drugs?
The big long boat passed through the road. It's name was RESIDENCE. No word of a lie.
I amsterfuckingdam my arse. am dam. just am dam. just am.
it's my home. it's where i've been and seen just about every fucking feeling, all the drought and all the creme.
i'll miss you.
always got a surprise if i'm bored of the liberal lies. it's you! i just bumped into you. fancy that or take it for granted. not now. i can feel you slip away. but i hold you with my ART. a silent HE. what? me? silent?
widadkevinbendimadubravkacattiillisatamaraserenaserenathijsandclairepeteandmagdatalliraymariekakristinageorg
ietobyAnAilonamaxpeijteririshchriskerrysimonsimondougpruedjbloodylekkererinaaronjodipennymarjorieceliae
rikjohandeclangarechbillivanillijoniranmichelmichelejalinkarowiniadanzanydaviddimitriliopolinahowiejaneGshamiro
slimcoleraymullatcarlosjerrymilanmauricerubydaisylindsayboorsambrosdavedaveenginmaxmaxrosierosejelenajan-willemkristinajimschoolstraatneighbourspablomickpaulsafiracatandfraseryorisandmirimbaiandthegirlsemmaunclejohn
simoneandemmaandscarlettkimrichardlozsimonerogierrogiermarcomarcostefstephi'mopentoeditthistilligetyouallin.....
time to roll that last? joint. omg.lol.wtf.smc.
i'm lost.
LIFE WILL NEVER BE THE SAME AGAIN.
More time to speak. Less time to love a male scottish accent.
An average amsterdam.
Make up the rest in your head. I know I will.
Eat more.
Have more in your pocket to buy drinks for yourself.
look at people with more hair.
don't see a golden bike with a slight incline to the right.
have more skins in the kashmir lounge
watch his beard grow grey'er as the funk flows
dance with the silly negros
eat more turks pizza
met kip in the happy doner
bass and drum .....cheeky!
hum the silent points where the bar used to be
where lesley ran the bar
where presley played my guitar
where jacek cut his jib
where punk never showed
but the stones were always free
the long drawn out demise of the vaag
i remember i remember and i was there, you cliched fucking square
the dope on rope that lead to swimming phones
the bones of cat
the zones a student card and sportstraat
i sometimes cycle past thinking how did we get to that?
lucky
strong and everything they say we should do is wrong.
move along.
my feet hurt last night, blisters from walking
is this how it's going to be
no bike
no easy way home
all change
mind the gap and all that fucking crap.
be positive
ro
i her yo
go
go go go
go go go
d d d d d d d
in that order
stop.
this is getting too real for me
that rhymes with v.d.
but i'm really gonna miss you see
i'm the unoriginal
born to kill
the times we have ahead
like i said the last time i saw you
it doesnt matter what i said
it's how i saw you.
bed.
BEYOND BORING Part G. ('What are you watchin' Aunty Mary?' I asked 'Programs Son.' she replied.)
by Angela Nunscunt on Saturday, 17 September 2011 at 20:46
Imagine that you are a computer. The program that's running inside you is not windows 7 or MAC Snow Leopard or that fucking nightmare known as vista. Your program is a glasgow catholic with an annoying moaning fucking negative whiney voice or an ever so right about everything self righteous dutch febo deep fat fryer or a bi-polar hairy armed spanish nyphomaniac or a screaming homosexual with no penis or a serbian titanium miner with an american passport and a bill clinton tattoo or an eagle with glasses and a clubbed foot or a perfect middle class english citizen. Just use your own imagination on that one. Maybe youre under surveillance. Maybe you'll never get connected to the world wide web , maybe the spider will never find you, maybe you are programmed to live in the hills. maybe you are programmed to contract cancer from the fear of watching too many emergency service tv programs-programmed to program you every two to three days. maybe you are programmed to program other people with your views of how your program works, maybe your program is uniquely designed to program children, send them to the programmed schools that you think will be best to program them. so you can compare programs all through life with them, then fall in and out of each others programs. maybe one day you will compromise on the same program with them; a compatible program like mac&pc running together in perfect harmony. maybe their program will catch a virus and they crash. maybe you are programmed to crash too because your program is programmed to not believe in a religion that believes that life is infinite and that you will never meet them again. maybe your program is to make everyone happy no matter what the cost; be it lies, lies and more lies. maybe your program works only at night, you are programmed not to meet anyone in daylight, you think you are a vampire because you were programmed by vampire movies to believe that there is a possibility that they do exist, that one day you will start thinking you really are a vampire; a modern day equivalent; you even begin to feed off of the few remaining night staff who feel the same as you, you marry one because you were programmed by your parents to keep the family gene growing, like a flying garden, free to set root anywhere in the world. only you programmed yourself to somewhere along the line. or was it the friends who programmed you? either way you begin to question if those friends were really friends. what was their agenda? just friendship. what is friendship? your program crashes... so you switch it off. you make a cup of coffee. you stare at the brown stuff at the bottom of the cup. you think to yourself... 'i'm not indigenous to the place where the coffeebean comes from, is that why it makes me urinate so much?' And should a child really drink cows milk for calcium? it doesnt seem natural to drink milk straight from a cow's udder or with any other mechanics to pass it into a human body. would you not get trampled by the cow. why am i programmed to think such thoughts?' oh yeah. because i want to. regardless of agenda, well.... maybe to annoy people..... to separate the tits from the udders.
